


Thoughts From The Tourist (Alone)

by haywoodyablowme



Category: Sugar Pine 7 RPF
Genre: Cibven, M/M, Paris - Freeform, SP7, Steven/Cib - Freeform, Sugar Pine 7 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 12:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13190094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haywoodyablowme/pseuds/haywoodyablowme
Summary: Passion begets passion. These boys are well versed in equal and opposite reactions, but for some reason don't expect something sweet after biting down on a bitter pill.Based on the Jon Cozart and Dodie Clark songs, "A Love Song From Paris" and "A Non-Love Song From Nashville"





	Thoughts From The Tourist (Alone)

Sitting in a hotel suite in Paris, alone. Steven can hear the rough voices that left him here. Harsh and angry words, empty and meaningless now. A fight worth losing, not sticking out. What hill did he have to die upon here?

 

A vacation is just that. Time away- a break from the usual. Why did that have to happen? He puts the wine glass to his lip and sips slowly. Normally a fan of white, favoring red hoping he can see why  _ he _ chose it. What more does it have to offer than stains? He can’t fathom it. Maybe the pairing with the French cheese he can’t pronounce. That seems accurate.

 

The wind bites his skin- cold and cruel and some sort of joke he can’t find funny. He knows better than to put on a jacket. Admitting defeat isn’t something Steve knows, and likely never will. The curtains dancing behind him a dramatic enough backdrop. If only he had someone to hold the camera, capture his moody visage paired with an earth toned backdrop. If only.

 

The hollow ache of his words- daggers thrown at him, making him bleed ice water. It didn't hurt like it should've. One of his flaws maybe, if he had any. He doesn't always have that same hot blood pumping through his veins like his other-  _ better _ half. 

 

* * *

 

 

Cib regrets leaving in such thin clothes. Storming out with no real plan and nowhere to  _ go.  _ He never really thought ahead. Foolhardy and without a plan. It's his trademark at this point.

 

When rain droplets fall, soft and gentle on Cib’s skin, he doesn't take cover. Doesn't retreat. He keeps walking, letting his white shirt go translucent slowly and surely. Hair slicked down and messy yet again. Always a mess. When is he tidy? He's a hurricane with a smile. All he can do, is destroy. Make a mess of home and heart. A heart called home, vacant. The bed cold.

 

This could never work! He's a man more...just--  _ more _ . More than Cib and his weak will and heavy heart. A better man, one with control. Who knows what to do- what he  _ wants _ . He’s a whole person on his own. Not like Cib, never...like Cib.

 

A fractured man, something crucial broken inside of him. How does he survive? Lost and lonely, charming but too hot headed. Nothing he could do or say would keep someone he could never compare to around. Not in his mind.

 

* * *

 

 

Steve’s fingers feel numb as he breaks apart chunks of a baguette Cib insisted they buy. It came hard, stale seeming. But still tastes nice with his cheese and wine. That Cib pointed out. Of fucking course he did. For a self proclaimed idiot, he sure knew a lot about...all these places they’ve gone. There's no way he could be some kind of savant who just-  _ knows  _ this, no, he was prepared. Did his research. Did something useful while Steve busied himself with work on the flight to their vacation. Classy move, Suptic. 

 

Sure, each exercise was important in its own regard but where was the thoughtfulness and pre-planning in spreadsheets with nothing to do with nothing to with the man finding hole in the wall spots and tour guides for those cultural hot-spots for them to enjoy.

 

Harping on the past does nothing for the present. Only increases that...self pity. And how can a man made of stone pity himself? 

 

Steve shakes his head, shakes the question; and pours himself another glass of wine. 

 

* * *

 

 

Cib sits on a bench. One between the city center- the tourist trap- and the underground scene. He wanted to show Steve the secret rebellion growing, how people bustling along to music made on a Macbook wanted to change the entire world. But for some reason- the thought of even going to an underground concert- made the knot in Cib’s stomach that much tighter- taught. Made him feel sick just enough to make him regret even leaving the hotel room.

 

He doesn't want to admit that maybe, just maybe, Cib overreacted. That saying all those nasty things was because he’s too emotional- he knows he’s too emotional-- that's not the point! Or- maybe it is...he needs to think. Control himself and his angry heart for one single moment. Maybe then he could erase the sadness entrenched in his diaphragm, or at least dislodge it so he can breathe.

 

* * *

 

 

Pen scratching against paper is one of the sounds Steve finds comforting. Writing this note felt less like impending doom, the more it feels- cathartic. Sweet and soothing as he pours his heart onto one of many pages. So many papers crumbled into balls, torn and stained with oh so much ink.

 

Steven Suptic- man who can talk his way through- anything, at a loss for words to delve into his love for Cib- Clay. To admit that he feels more love in his heart for one man then he has in- time he can’t calculate. To pour the affection onto a page, lifeless and unresponsive. Not what he's used to. He’s used to overreaching exciting reactions, happiness so genuine and physical affection to boot. God he misses it- it’s hard to gauge what he’s saying, what’s perfect and what falls flat with no one around him. With Clay gone.

 

Mid-sentence, pen pressed against paper, ink welling up on the page, anxiety strikes him. He taps his pen, bouncing a leg as he watches rain fall down his window. Even if it happened hours ago, hs can still  _ see  _ the thin clothes Cib left in. He can imagine the worst- see Cib shivering in the rain, stranded, catching pneumonia and-- no. Stop. Cib- Cib will be fine. He finds a way to survive no matter the cost. He knows how to adapt. How long as he been tapping this pen? How annoying. He tries to stop but the lack of movement wells up this- energy. Energy he isn't exerting and is going toward worrying about Cib- Clay. Worrying and itching and thinking of running out the door to find him- but. No. Deep breaths. He will be fine. Everything will be fine. It always is.

 

He taps out a message on his phone, pauses and deletes it. Orders delivery to his room and tries to write again.

 

* * *

 

 

Cib can’t stop moving, shifting his weight from side to side, fidgeting and bouncing. He takes deep breaths and looks between his wallet in hand and the cashier before him, trying to calculate what he needs to pay so he can leave, but not wanting to walk back into the cold.

 

He pays a hundred euros to the cashier and collects the bottles of wine and the bundle of red roses. What a cliche to be here in Paris, France and buy the romantic epitome of kindness for a man who might not care he’s now without money and stranded in the town center.

 

* * *

 

 

Eight pm rolls around. It comes and goes, and brings in its hour a second set of knocks on Steve’s door. A curious occurrence considering his delivery had already arrived, no one has a reason to knock.

 

They knock again. This time more impatient with an accompanying whine-  _ “C’mon, Steve-” _ the voice huffs, bringing Steve to his feet in an instant. He knows that voice- the cadence. Can practically picture Clay behind the door. See him shaking holding himself before he even opens the door. And when he does, the sight before him of the cold shaking man is one he expects. But the items making shapes under his shirt- just wet fabric, useless now- are things Steve couldn't predict. 

 

Before he can open his mouth, Steve ushers Clay in. Insisting he sets down the items somewhere and warm himself up- and though he is glad to be warm again and flattered he was fussed over, he refuses.

 

Instead he offers up the bottles of wine and half crushed flowers harmed from their journey and the failed protection. Cib straights his back and holds the presents precariously before he speaks.

 

“Steve I- I was an ass and-” He starts, only to be cut off.

 

“No, stop, I was being unreasonable too, you can’t take the whole blame,” Steve interrupts, but knows it's worthwhile. He's grown so used to the self flagellation that would inevitably fall from the other man's lips, best to dam them up now before the thought may even cross his mind. Cib pouts. Momentary and confused over childish and hurt.

 

“I just wanted to say- I- look dude I love you-” The words are rushed and unplanned and the epitome of Cib's love- passionate and meaningful and wide eyed. With little feeling in his hand, he drops the roses to the floor, petals hanging on by little falling free, roses still in tact hurt and bruised. Bent, not broken.

 

Steve looks wide eyed at Cib, picking up the flowers and gently taking the bottles. He places them on a table set in a nearby corner of the room and as the silence settles over the two, Steve grabs Cib up in a hug. Arms wrapped around him so tightly- he’s here and alive and Steve is in love. Hopelessly and whole heartedly, fallen in love with the man in his arms, a little too reckless and messy but beautiful in the setting sun and soft lighting. 


End file.
